Small Kindnesses And Other Stories
by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica
Summary: Her lower lip trembled. Small kindnesses from a perfect stranger: a compliment, a connection, and too much money for a mediocre painting. He didn't even know her name. Feysand AU.
1. Small Kindnesses

**A/N: Short Feysand AU. I might make this into a series of AUs, depending upon whether people want it or not. If you do want me to make it into a series and you have an AU prompt you'd like me to try, just PM or review me and I'll give it a shot. :)**

 **Rating: T**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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Small Kindnesses

Feyre couldn't believe it had come to this.

She shivered in the brisk early-morning air, rubbing her hands up-and-down her pebbly arms. The bay breeze sliced right through her nubby jacket and seeped into her bones one at a time, each toe slowly going numb. She stamped her foot, exhaling sharply, and checked her watch. Seven o'clock in the morning.

Nesta had been pissed as hell that morning—pissed that Feyre had woken her up, that Feyre was doing this at all.

"Why can't you get a normal job?" she'd said. "Work at a car wash? Get a job as a fry cook at Wendy's?"

"Why can't you?" Feyre had wanted to snap, but didn't. It was an old argument, old and weathered and worn, buried under years of complicated history. She didn't poke at it anymore, didn't question or force the issue.

Instead, Feyre had said, "I'll still be working at the mall during the week. This is just to earn a little extra money."

"Then do something else," Nesta had snarled. "Don't just fuck around on Fisherman's Wharf."

Feyre grimaced at the memory. The argument had gotten heated—they'd woken Elain and her father up, and Nesta had almost been late for her date that morning. She was heading down to Palo Alto, apparently, with some boy she'd met at a college party.

Feyre balled her hands into fists and shoved them into her jacket pockets. She'd dropped out of school years ago—had to work, had to scrounge up enough money to get Elain and Nesta through high school and community college. God knew her father couldn't do it.

Bitter, she thought. Bitter and beaten and worn. That was what she was.

She sighed with resignation and headed back to her car, parked on the steep incline near the curb, and opened the trunk, pulling out the canvases. It had been a friend of Elain's that had told Feyre about the artists selling their wares on the streets surrounding Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, and Feyre hadn't been able to forget it since. The idea had wriggled around in her brain, demanding to be heard.

So she'd gotten the permit, scraped up the cash to buy a few paints and a brush. And after that, when she was at home late at night after her shift working retail at the mall, she had let the colors fly. They were ripped from her: torn, piece by piece, as if she were painting with marrow and blood and bone instead of acrylics.

They weren't especially good paintings, now that she looked at them again. In fact, they were mediocre at best.

Even her boyfriend, Tamlin, had raised an eyebrow when she'd told him. "Sell your paintings?" he'd said. "On the piers?"

She'd shuffled her feet. "I don't know."

"Oh, Feyre," Tamlin had said with a sigh, bringing her in and kissing her neck. "I know how hard you work. But don't… Don't do that. It's a stupid waste of time."

The words had hit her like a slap to the face. Stupid waste of time. Ergo: she wasn't good enough to make a handful of pennies on the boardwalk, let alone enough to compensate for a full day's work. She was such an idiot, thinking that she could do this.

And Tamlin… Tamlin would know. Tamlin was right. He came from a wealthy family known for its art collections. The only reason she'd ever crossed paths with him was because he'd ducked into her work once to buy a birthday present for his friend, Lucien.

Lucien, who didn't approve of white-trash Feyre one bit, by the by, despite her initial affluent upbringing. But the housing crisis in '08 had hit her family hard. She couldn't even remember what it was like not to count every cent in her pocket, what it was like not to sniff out sales and grovel at the feet of the Salvation Army and Goodwill.

Feyre stared at the paintings that she'd set up, that she'd set so painstakingly against the sidewalk, propping them up on stands or against the flowering bougainvillea hedges. She stared at the table that she'd set up, the metal lockbox, the little price tags that she'd stuck to the edge of the table. They fluttered weakly in the wind.

What the hell was she doing? What the hell was she doing?

The fog from the bay slipped up the streets, cloaking her in cool mist. A seagull floated down lazily, landing a few feet away. It cocked its head inquisitively at her, clicking its orange beak.

She would go home. She would go home, and she would tell Nesta that she was sorry, and she'd beg for a weekend shift at the mall. Forget painting, forget this. She'd been stupid, idiotic, asinine. Tamlin was right, just like he always was. Maybe she'd go back to his apartment first. She could use a bit of comfort, even if he was always busy these days.

Feyre was just about to pack her things back up when she heard the voice behind her.

"Are these for sale?"

She jumped a bit, whirling. A man was standing on the curb, peering at her interestedly.

For a moment, she just looked at him. Really looked.

Because even though Feyre had a boyfriend, even though she was clearly spoken for, had been for some time now…

The man standing on the curb was beautiful. Quite possibly the most beautiful she'd ever seen.

He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscled, with faintly tanned skin and a chiseled profile. He had a shock of silky black hair and eyes like crushed violets, and he was wearing a leather jacket and a pair of jeans, both of which, she knew from retail experience, were probably valued at more than her car.

He was yawning and holding a cup of coffee like a lifeline, and he was studying her paintings.

"Um," Feyre said. Because really, that was all she could think to say.

"They're quite good," the man went on. "Did you paint them?"

"No," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. "Well, I mean, yes, I painted them, but they're not for sale."

"That's a shame." The man took a sip of his coffee, peering closer at them. "You've got some real talent, darling."

Her cheeks flushed. "I… Thanks."

"I especially like this one," the man said, nudging one of her favorites with his foot. It was of Elain and Nesta, both of them sitting before a window. Nesta was looking away, her lips twisted down in a grimace, but Elain was smiling brightly, directly forward, her eyes flushed with giddiness. "It's beautiful." He turned toward her. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to part with it?"

She blinked. "I… Really?"

"Yes, really." He grinned. "So, was that a yes or a no?"

"That… Yes," she said, smiling brightly. She felt as if she might cry. "Thank you. I… Thank you."

The man might've been taken aback, but he wasn't. "Don't thank me. You deserve it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, rifling through bills and credit cards.

The movement sent Feyre into action. She retrieved some of the bubble wrap she'd saved and grabbed the painting, wrapping it up and adhering it with a piece of Scotch tape. She wasn't exactly sure if this was professional or not, but she didn't care. She'd gotten her first customer! Someone had wanted to buy her painting!

She couldn't wait to tell Tamlin.

The man was looking at her bubble-wrapped painting with faint amusement, his lips twitching. Her cheeks colored. "Did I… Did I do something wrong?"

"No," the man said hurriedly, shaking his head. "Not at all." He hesitated before pulling a card from his wallet. "My name is Rhysand."

She blinked. "Um… Hi. Rhysand."

"The reason I'm telling you this," he said, "is because my cousin, Mor, owns an art gallery a couple of blocks from here." He handed her a card. It was glossy, white, embossed with the words THE MORRIGAN with an address and contact information underneath. "Pay her a visit sometime. I'm sure that she'd be willing to help you—maybe even get you a job. If you want it, that is."

"I…" A lump rose in her throat. "Really?"

"Someone as talented as you are shouldn't be selling art off the street," he said with a half-smile. "Anyway. You don't have to take it or anything, but… I figured I'd give it a shot." He glanced at his watch and cursed. "Look, I have to go. I'm late for work. But thank you for the painting," he said, tucking it beneath his arm. He pressed a single, crisp bill into her hand. "And it was nice meeting you. Call me up if you're ever at Mor's, alright?"

And then he was running down the sidewalk, his cup of coffee sloshing in its container, and Feyre was left standing on the curb, her throat scratchy and eyes suspiciously hot.

Small kindnesses. That was what Rhysand had given her.

Feyre hadn't been given small kindnesses in… Goodness, in what felt like an eternity.

She unfurled her palm and almost dropped dead. She'd asked ten dollars for her paintings, but Rhysand had handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

She gaped before springing into action, glancing down the street. "Rhysand?" she called. "Rhysand!"

But he was gone—vanished.

Her lower lip trembled. Small kindnesses from a perfect stranger: a compliment, a connection, and too much money for a mediocre painting. He didn't even know her name.

She stuffed the bill into the metal lockbox. She'd track down Rhysand's cousin and get that job at the gallery. And then… Then she'd pay him back. She'd find him again.

So many things to do—a list made from those sweet, small kindnesses.

But just then, as the morning fog was finally pierced by citrusy sunlight, she couldn't help but smile.

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 **A/N: Review and let me know what you think! :)**


	2. Sunshine

**A/N: I'm back! I think I'll probably update these pretty regularly... They're fun and easy to write, and I'm on break right now, so I've got time on my hands. This one is MorxAzriel, and I got the prompt from a tumblr post that, despite my best efforts, I can't manage to find. The prompt was "walk of shame AU." So: if you are that tumblr user, or you know the post I'm talking about, let me know so I can direct credit to where it's due.**

 **Anyways, thanks oodles to everybody that reviewed (you guys are awesome!) and I hope you enjoy!**

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SUNSHINE

Mor woke in a strange room, in a strange bed, basking in sunlight streaming in from strange windows.

There was a pounding, throbbing ache in her head, and a sour taste in her mouth. The sunlight seemed to sear the outside of her eyelids—seemed to burn her skin right off her back.

She sat up slowly, carefully, wincing as she did so. She clung to the strange sheets tangled around her legs, chafing against her calves.

It took a moment for to realize that there was a man sleeping beside her. It took another for her to realize that she wasn't wearing any clothes.

 _Shit._

Memories seeped in gradually, coming in bits and pieces. The club—the rave of slamming lights and shouts, the scent of spilled alcohol and sweat, the music that drove spikes through her temples. Her laughter, carefree and drunk and loose, spilling from her in a deluge of dancing, slipping to the floor along with her sweat.

He wasn't bad-looking, she supposed, studying her nameless one-night-stand in broad daylight. Not quite as muscular or mysterious as he had seemed last night in the club, but not a complete embarrassment, either.

Jesus. Her parents were going to kill her.

She slid from the bed, shimmying into her dress—zippered, low-cut at the bust and high-cut at the thigh, and a red bright enough to give the sun a run for its money. She'd go to Rhys's. He'd give her a tongue-lashing as well, but not in the same way as her parents. He'd just flare his nostrils and get her a bottle of aspirin.

Mor paused, glancing in the mirror mounted on the wall of the man's apartment.

Her mascara was smudged, her lipstick a bloody gash, her eyeshadow so ruined that it had given her two black eyes. Her golden hair hung in matted tangles around her face.

She grinned at her reflection. After all, the night wasn't worth having if she didn't pay the price for it the next morning.

The man stirred in his bed, but didn't wake. Good, she thought, grabbing her shoes from where they were discarded on opposite ends of the room. It was easier this way. It was easier when all she left was the faint scent of her perfume and perspiration lingering on the air, the faded memories of stolen kisses and whoops of recklessness.

Mor had learned that she was better in echoes.

She couldn't stomach sliding her five-inch heels over her battered, bruised feet, so she slung her feet through the glittery straps instead. She tiptoed over the man's loft, hobbling over the wooden planks. It was a nice place, she had to admit, though it wasn't nice in the way her parents' expansive penthouse on Park was. This was Manhattan boho-style, Brooklyn through-and-through.

She peered through the window with a worried wrinkle of her forehead. At least, she _thought_ it was Brooklyn. It might have been Newark for all she knew. It might have been _London,_ on the opposite side of the ocean from New York City.

Once Mor had gone to a club in the Bronx and woken up in Dublin. Now _that_ had been an adventure. She lived for the nights: it was the one time when she was allowed to live and breathe.

She snuck out the front door, shutting it with a soft _click_ behind her. The man lived on the fourth floor in a battered walkup, though it wasn't as bad as it might have been. The smell of drug labs didn't linger in the wallpaper, coughs didn't wrack the hallways, and there were no rats or arachnids lurking in the shadows.

Mor had been in enough of those apartments—had scratched the bedbugs from her skin often enough—to learn to dread them.

She padded down the stairs, earning a dour glance along the way from an old lady heading downstairs to fetch her newspaper. Mor almost spat at her. The lady was clutching a cigarette like it was her lifeline, despite the nicotine patches all over her forearms, and she was in hair curlers and a terrycloth bathrobe.

Mor might have looked bad, but at least she didn't look like the ghost of fucking Florida, summer of '52.

She shoved open the door with more force than was absolutely necessary, wincing at the light. The sun was beginning to rise over the city, shoving its way above the horizon. Manhattan, or Brooklyn, or wherever the hell she was standing, was starting to show signs of life. People walked their dogs down the street, grabbed coffee at the shop on the corner, sat on the front stoop and smoked a cig, exhaling smoke in tandem with their useless thoughts.

Mor counted two other girls doing the same thing she was about to do—the same thing that she did every Friday and Saturday night. The walk of shame.

She dug in her purse and pulled out a rubber band, tying her hair up in a knot. She rummaged around for a cigarette, retrieved a pack of American Spirits, and snarled when she found it empty. She chucked it into a wastebin on the corner. Fine. Rhysand would kick her ass if she arrived at his brownstone smelling like an ashtray anyway.

The flask she'd stashed in her purse was empty, too. So was the bottle of Tylenol.

She needed a CVS, and she needed it now.

Her phone was at five percent, but that was better than nothing. She pulled up a map and let it route her location. The buffering symbol rippled, twitched, rippled…

She was in the Upper West Side. Not bad; she was maybe three or four blocks away from the nearest subway station. She reached into her bag and pulled out her Metro Card, sticking it between her teeth as she tapped out a text on her phone to her cousin.

 _Wake up, bitch. I'm coming over._

She stuffed her phone in her bag and began the long, slow, painful trek toward the subway. She was already regretting her decision not to call a cab, but some perverted part of her, odd as it sounded, _enjoyed_ the walk of shame. Some part of her relished the feeling of the sun coming up—savored how it kissed and scalded her skin, as if it cleansed her of her sins and shortcomings.

Cleansed with acid, of course. But cleansed all the same.

New York was a dirty, smelly city, fraught with the extremely poor and extremely rich. Mor saw a woman with a two-hundred haircut walk her thousand-dollar-dog pass by a homeless man curled up on top of a heating grate without so much as a second glance. In the gutter, pigeons pecked at the remains of a bagel. Somewhere, sirens sang their song of woe, weeping and praying.

Mor liked the sirens, too. If nothing else, they were loud enough to remind her that as miserable as she was underneath her parents' cracking hands, it could be worse.

This was her city. It was darkness: it was wildness and shadows and grime.

She eventually had to put on her heels to descend the steps to the subway platform (they were just too disgusting). She limped to the train heading to the Met; Rhys's brownstone was only a block or two away.

She swiped her Metro Card and made her way to the platform, wrinkling her nose at a rat scurrying about ten feet away. They were sneaky little devils; Mor thought there must be billions of the buggers spread across the boroughs. She stuck out her tongue at the creature.

A few feet away, someone coughed, almost as if they were trying to suppress a laugh.

She glanced over. An man—unusually handsome; _classically beautiful_ was the monomer that came to mind—was standing stiffly near the lip of the platform. He was muscled and tall, even more broad-shouldered than Rhys, with tanned, scarred skin, a shock of close-cropped black hair, and hazel eyes. What looked to be a pretty wicked burn marred his right arm.

Mor gave a mental nod to the burn. She had her own share of scars, from her parents and their various acquaintances, physical and mental. She liked a scar on a person: it showed that they had grit.

The man met her gaze, but as quickly as he made eye contact, he shifted away. It was almost imperceptible; the man was stalwart, unreadable even to her trained eye.

Mor was intrigued. She wished that she didn't look like such complete shit.

"Hi," she said. Her voice came out a little ragged—the combination of one too many cigarettes and the early-morning sunshine, she suspected.

The man didn't respond.

"Well, that's a little rude," she said. "Least you could do is say _hello._ "

He blinked, glancing behind him. "Are you talking to me?"

"No," Mor said, rolling her eyes. "I'm having scintillating discourse with the rat behind you. His name is Fred, by the way. He says hi."

The man stared at her, probably perplexed by the combination of Mor's slutty outfit and the words _scintillating discourse,_ not to mention her burgeoning friendship with the rat.

It was a wonder she ever got men to like her. Honestly.

She waited for him to take the bait, to either a) offer some sort of witty comeback, b) snarl at her, or c) give her a dirty look and turn away. But the man didn't do any of these things. When he finally spoke, all he said was "Oh."

 _Oh._

"You're quite the conversationalist," she remarked. "Aren't you."

"Yes."

She plopped her hands on her waist. "'Yes?'"

"Yes," the man repeated.

Jesus.

"That's all the reaction you have to my torrid love affair with Fred?"

He rose a brow slightly. "Torrid love affair?"

"Mm-hm. On par with _Casablanca._ It puts _Gone With the Wind_ to shame _._ "

"'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.'"

It took her a second before her eyes widened, and her face split into a dazzling smile. "Oh, my God. You just quoted _Gone With the Wind_ at me."

He shrugged.

She grinned—she couldn't help it. She had taken a shining to this strange, quiet man that had stifled a laugh at her antics. She crossed over to him, still hobbling a bit in her heels. "My name is Mor," she said, sticking out her hand. "What's yours?"

He hesitated, but shook her hand back. "Azriel."

"Pleased to meet you, Azriel." She beamed at him.

He looked mildly perturbed.

Her eyes fell down to their hands, still linked, and realized she was shaking his right hand—the arm that had the horrid burn distorting his lovely skin. He followed her gaze and jerked his hand back. For some odd reason, her palm was tingling, and a pleasant, squirming sensation wriggled in her stomach.

"I'm sorry," she said, more quietly this time.

He didn't reply. He didn't even react. Christ, was he even _human_?

She reached down to her skirt and yanked it up a fraction of an inch. An awful scar—one of Mor's worst—was set into her thigh, puckered and red. It was newer; her father had given it to her a few weeks ago. He'd been drunk and frustrated and God knew what, and he'd pinned her to the wall and jammed a wine corkscrew into her skin.

It had hurt like hell, and she'd run from the house—run all the way to the corner, where she'd called Rhys, shivering in the cold. He'd picked her up in a cab a half an hour later, and he'd put her in the backseat, storming into her parents' apartment with an expression that scared her enough to keep her mouth shut.

When she'd gone back a couple of days later, her father had a black eye the size of Florida.

"A scar for a scar," she said, even as Azriel's eyes widened. She shoved her skirt back down.

"I don't…" Azriel swallowed thickly. "I don't even know you."

"I don't know you, either," Mor admitted. "But frankly, I stopped giving a fuck a long time ago. My gut tells me that you're a good person, and I listen to my gut."

That same subtle eye raise. "Your gut?"

"My gut," she affirmed with a nod. "I'm a firm believer in all that hippie shit." She dug into her pocket and pulled out a few different stones—onyx, amethyst; tourmaline. "See? For luck. I believe in chakras and energy and good and bad vibes. And you, Azriel, have a good vibe."

He just looked at her.

"And even if you're a very bad vibe-y person," she continued, "I have a can of pepper spray in my purse and ten years' worth of krav maga training under my belt. I'm a big girl, never fear."

His lips twitched.

"I think we're going to be good friends, you and I," she said, as the screech of the subway car sounded. Headlights flickered in the tunnel. "And I'm glad that I met you. Fred is great and all, but I kind of prefer human company, to tell you the truth."

He studied her for a moment, but then he nodded, and Mor could've sworn she saw a small smile on his face. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

When the subway pulled up, depositing commuters and a group of Midwestern tourists, the two of them filed into the car together. Between them flickered a small flame—so small that it hardly compared to the sun, hardly merited enough to light a birthday candle.

But it was there all the same. And as Azriel glanced at Mor again, the flame grew.

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Azriel didn't know what to think of her.

That was a lie.

She was beautiful, and funny, and an absolute disaster, standing there unevenly on the subway platform that morning. He'd never seen a bigger trainwreck.

And yet, somehow, someway, she managed to outshine the sun.

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 **A/N: :) Let me know what you think! And if you have a prompt you'd like me to write, just let me know!**


	3. When Skies Are Gray

**A/N: Elucien this time! Prompt comes from tumblr user frostlawyer. Theme is high school teachers instead of high school students. I added in a game of hangman along the way. ;)**

 **Thanks so much to everyone that reviewed! You guys are the best! :)**

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When Skies Are Gray

Lucien hated high schoolers.

He sank into his chair with a sigh, dragging his hands through his hair. He'd hated high schoolers while he was in high school. Why on earth had he become a high school teacher?

He glanced at the whiteboard, now an absolute disaster. Expo markers had gone to war, scribbles of blues and purples and greens rubbed into the board. There was a half-finished hangman game in which the mystery word appeared to be 'asshole,' a mediocre, anatomically incorrect rendering of a penis, and a hastily-scribbled sentence that said, in piss-poor penmanship and grammar, DONT LET DA MAN GET U DOWN.

Christ.

In retrospect, it had been a mistake to allow them to write on the board. Lucien wasn't normally that stupid, but he'd been trying to teach them polynomials, and somewhere along the way, he'd just given up. His fifth-bell period of Algebra II was clearly not receptive to the idea of leading coefficients.

The last ten minutes of the bell, he'd just shuffled back to his desk defeatedly, head hanging low, and told them to talk amongst themselves.

Of course, they had taken that to mean commandeer the whiteboard.

He cursed, shoving himself up from his uncomfortable desk chair and grabbing an eraser, lips half-peeled in a vicious snarl. He hated teenagers. They were a bunch of hormone-ridden, ungrateful, disrespectful little—

"Lucien?"

He halted midway across the room. Elain was standing in the doorway, hiding a smile at the mess on his board.

She looked lovely today (Elain always looked lovely). Her maple-syrup hair was plaited into a braid, and she was wearing a flower-print dress and a pair of glossy heels, a thin silver necklace resting in the hollow of her throat. Her eyes glimmered with mischief.

His heart gave a tug.

"Oh, my," she said, walking into his room. She surveyed the whiteboard and giggled a bit. "Lucien, what happened?"

He groaned and banged his head against the wall. "They're bastards."

"This drawing is actually quite good," Elain said, indicating a giant umbrella drawn in a vulgar shade of orange. On the handle were written the words BRELLA BABE RIHANNA.

"I hate them."

"Oh, now, that's not true," she said.

"No, it is. They're heartless twats. I want them to die in a fire."

"Lucien."

He slumped down in his chair and gave her a bemoaning look. "Polynomials. They're not hard. We're not even doing math—we're just discussing its parts!"

Her nose wrinkled. "Poly-what now?"

"Polynomials."

She shuddered. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm slogging through Wuthering Heights."

"It doesn't. I'd rather brave Emma and Mr. Darcy than these hellions when faced with an equation more complicated than one-plus-one."

Elain laughed. "Wrong characters. They're not even from the same book."

"What's the difference? All those Gothic novels are the same damned thing anyway."

"So bitter," she teased, patting him on the shoulder. "Cheer up. It's never as bad as it seems."

He relaxed slightly. She was close enough that Lucien could smell her perfume—clean and fresh, enough to tickle the inside of his nose. She smelled of lilacs.

It was torture.

Lucien had been in love with Elain Archeron since her first day at Seacrest High. She'd come in bright and bubbly, a whirlwind of smiles and jokes and flowers in the form of a tenth-grade English teacher. She'd taken his world, turned so grim and dark, and made it shine—opened up a tiny door and let the sunshine filter through.

Three years later, and Lucien still couldn't get enough of her. He'd never heard a more beautiful sound than her laugh. It brought back memories of his childhood before his father had taken his belt to Lucien's back—memories of downy meadows and freckles, bug jars and plastic hula-hoops that made swishing sounds as they whipped around his waist.

"I guess you're right," he said, fumbling for the words. "I don't know."

Elain walked over to the board and erased the 'asshole' hangman game. She picked up a turquoise Expo marker and drew a slash, a few lines—a new gallows and mystery phrase.

"Go on," she said. "Guess."

Lucien stared at her. "You've got to be kidding."

"I never jest about hangman. Let's go, Luc." She grinned, a dimple appearing in her right cheek. "Afraid of defeat?"

"You know, this isn't particularly fair. I'm a math teacher, and you're an English teacher. You have the upper-hand when it comes to words."

"Oh, please. Lucien, you're one of the smartest people I've ever met in my life. You're wasted here." She tapped the board. "Now, guess!"

He blinked, a bit taken aback at her praise, and blushed a bit. "You think I'm smart?"

"Lucien, come on," Elain whined, stamping her foot.

He cleared his throat. "Fine. Ah… 'a.'"

"Success!" She threw her hands up in the air and drew a single a on the board. "Go again."

"Elain, this is stupid."

"Don't insult my favorite game."

"This is your favorite game?"

"Please."

He sighed, his nostrils flaring. "I don't know. 'S.'"

"Another success!"

They went on that for some time, and the words began to take shape, written in Elain's curly script. There were four words in the phrase, and it took Lucien perhaps five minutes before he realized what the board read.

"You are my sunshine," he said.

Elain beamed, delighted, and clapped her hands together. "Right! See, I told you."

Lucien stared at her, feeling a lump appear in his throat. Because, really… The opposite was true. In that moment, in his stupid Algebra classroom reeking of pencil shavings and unwashed teenaged bodies, he couldn't help but feel stupidly grateful.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and her cheeks were dusted with a shade of rosy pink. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Lucien stood up, walked over to her, and took the marker from her hand. She swallowed, her throat bobbing, and backed up a step. He erased her gallows and wrote another phrase.

"Guess," he said softly.

"Um…" Her eyes darted away, landing on her shoes. She didn't move away, though. They were inches apart—so close that Lucien could smell the sweet scent of her shampoo. "I don't know. 'Y.'"

"Success," he said quietly, and wrote a 'y' in his messy math teacher's scrawl.

They went back and forth, their words somewhat softened. She rested her chin on his shoulder to peer at the word, her brow furrowed in concentration. His heart skipped a beat, blood rising to the surface of his skin, and Elain glanced at him, her eyes cautious and furtive and…

He didn't know what. He didn't know anything anymore.

"You make me happy," she answered, reading the board. Her voice was strangely shallow. "It's not very original, you know. It's only the next verse of the song."

"It's true, though."

Elain stared at him for a moment before taking the marker. She erased the board and wrote a new phrase—this one small, only two words and seven letters. "Guess."

"'E.'"

So it went—quickly this time, letters filling in rapidly. Lucien had been good at this game as a child, though he'd preferred to write the words, not guess.

When he realized what the board said, he stilled, his body going rigid.

"Kiss me," he whispered.

And sure enough, in her sugary-sweet handwriting were the words kiss me.

Elain nodded, one corner of her lips curling up. "Kiss me," she repeated, somewhat hoarsely.

And then, because he was crazily, insanely out-of-his-mind in love with her, he did it.

Lucien kissed her.

It was swift—soft. He wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her close, cupping her cheek with his hand. She went rigid with surprise for a moment before responding, hooking her arms around his neck and digging her fingernails into his scalp.

He pulled back, panting slightly. Her hazelnut eyes had gone a bit hazy.

"Kiss me," she whispered again, as if in a daze.

And even though they were idiots, even though they were in his stupid Algebra classroom and not beneath a flowering rose trellis, as he'd always pictured, even though the lunch bell would be over in ten minutes and they each had a seventh-bell to teach, even though it was the worst possible timing and they were kissing against a backdrop of an anatomically incorrect dick…

Even though there was all of this and more, Lucien did it anyway.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

You keep me happy when skies are gray,

You never know, dear, how much I love you,

So please don't take my sunshine away.

* * *

 **A/N: Fluff! Their relationship hasn't gotten a lot of development yet, but I love their characters individually, so... You know. It isn't that far of a reach to ship them. ;) Review and let me know what you think!**


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